Intervention
by ChuckTheElf
Summary: The First War: Open battle has joined. Skirmishes are popping up, and James Potter is in the middle of one. This describes such a skirmish, and what combat in Voldermort's initial rise to power could have looked like. Rated T for violence.


James Potter raised his ensorcelled shield, deflecting yet another blast of Dark magic. His own wand spat a reply, transfiguring the debris into aggressive wildlife; a wolf, naturally. Just as quickly it was cut down – the Death Eaters had reflexes nearly as swift as his own, and refused to refrain from magic no man should have ever learned.

Beside him, his best friend and strongest supporter cursed vociferously. At the same time, the dark-haired Sirius Black countered a blast, dispelling some indescribable horror into a pink haze. It was a feat well beyond James – but easily within Sirius's capacity as Heir to the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black. Were it not for decades of friendship, some of the curses the man fired would have forced James to put him down on the spot.

As it was, they were only just barely forcing the Death Eaters back. Dark Magic held undeniable potency, but Auror Division Five composed of the best.

The hint of lightning rippled through the air; James automatically raised his shield, grounding the expanding tip into the rubble. Electricity-based spells packed a punch for the unwary.

Howling broke out on the far side; he could spot werewolves charging across the battle lines. An answering howl erupted from their own werewolf, one that had deliberately chosen his own side, fully knowing the consequences if lost.

"'Ware Remus!" James shouted. "Three Fangs incoming, wide East!"

A bone-chilling snarl emanated back. Few things could bring more terror to an unarmed wizard than a werewolf in full flight – their strength and regenerative power exceeded all but trolls, and even then, had a superior recuperative power.

The sight of one Remus Lupin, savagely using both wand and an ancient silver-edged blade forged by an extinct line of dwarves made him very glad he'd taken the werewolf under his wing, years past.

Battle continued. The stench of ozone, remnants of transfigured beasts and whatever foul magics pulling sulphrous concoctions into combat filled the air. It stung his nose, sensitized even when he didn't employ the shape-changing magics of his youth. What it must have smelled like to someone with the equivalent olfactory senses of a dog, he didn't want to know.

A flock of razor-winged hummingbirds coalesced from debris surrounding James. With a flick, they whirred forwards, agile and deadly. Behind those he sent a wave of animated stone creations, same color as the ground but far more deadly. "Are you getting _old_ Sirius?" he mocked his friend. "Five galleons says we catch this mob before ten minutes."

The black-haired man barked laughter in his direction. "Why hurry? The night is young and so am I! Oh wait," a spell that seemed to congeal a web of darkness across an escape path flowed into being at his behest. "That's right, Lily set a curfew for you, didn't she? Old married man has to get his naptime in, or he gets cranky before bed, right?"

James bounded forwards, stabbing the shield back in place as a wave of sickly green light caromed off its surface. "Bloody hell! I'm not _that_ old! Can you get that one? He's trying to pin me down here."

Midnight-hued ropes sprang around the Death Eater, before he dis-Apparated, reappearing behind a better vantage point. Or _would_ have been a better position, had the partially-destroyed wall not grown arms, pinning the man in place.

"Which one?" his dark-haired friend pretended to consider the issue. "The one in the mask, or the other one in the mask?"

Laughter died on James's lips as an enormous pressure slammed into his shield. The near side of the battlefield surged forwards, confidence enveloping their every move. "Move! It's _him_! Pull back!"

Out of nowhere, Remus joined the pair, his own wand spitting a fire-based variant at the oncoming threat. A Death Eater caught the spell in the throat, falling without so much as a gurgling cry. Incinerated vocal cords tended to do that.

But further back, stalking along what had once been a brick path, strode _Him._ Voldemort, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The Dark Lord feared by all of Britain, and most of the nearest Continent. Where the Death Eaters wore masks, terrifying in anonymity, _he_ wore no mask. Dark hair, luxuriant in length, floated in the wind caused by his own unleashed potential. Dark clothing, impeccably arrayed, exhibited as much as it concealed, fully covering everything but displaying the strength needed to wear full dragon-hide body armor without the supporting spell work. A normal wizard struggled to carry a suit ten yards, but here _he_ was, walking as if the entire ensemble weighed no more than tissue paper.

James fired a complex series of transfigurations, first targeting the stonework around the oncoming figure, then adding enhancements in the second circuit. Boulders formed themselves into unstoppable machines of destruction, destroyed bits of pillars growing spears of themselves and launching at the handsome, but cruel visage.

The Dark Lord flicked his off-hand, dispelling the transfigurations. The wand in his other hand bobbed twice, dissipating the noisome curse Sirius had launched at the same time.

James cursed under his breath. One advantage he and Sirius held was their teamwork. What one did, the other supported, without words, no explanations needed. He tried again, invoking the more esoteric spell-work from the family grimoires, absently noting the perfectly complementary charms that flew alongside, near-invisible under the overpowering light.

Remus too, added to the attack, wielding the arcane hexes in a fashion that only James's wife could hope to understand. Sigils appeared around the Dark Lord, erupting into fountains of molten stone, swirling across pathways only the caster envisioned.

Voldemort paused, a slight frown breaking his otherwise placid expression. He'd been spotted taking on a five-man Auror team, and winning. The fact that they were giving him trouble would have been flattering – if they hadn't been his primary focus.

The man moved inhumanly fast, spell-work arising into the ether faster than James could follow. He kept up the attacks, alternating every other casting with defensive measures, enhancing his mass to better withstand concussive spells, draining sigils that appeared before his feet. Each of the others kept up the desperate pace, Remus taking a back-row behind his and Sirius's shields. By now, they were the only thing keeping them alive. Each spell that impacted their surface rang like an anvil, smote by an angry demon.

Not a bad analogy, he had to admit. But they were being driven back.

"Portkeys!" he called. "In five! Four! Three! Two! One!"

The code phrase should have triggered their group escape portkeys, sending them to safety. But the tugging sensation failed to connect, leaving a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Wards," Remus commented. "Blocked. Don't apparate, we'll splinch."

A gallows-humor chuckle came from Sirius. "I hope we don't die here. Lily will kill us if we die."

Flame whips, _seven_ of them, erupted from the Dark Lord's wand. To date, James knew a man that could wield three, and was considered a master of the spell, and would have collapsed just in the exertion. For the Dark Lord to effortlessly conjure over double that number demonstrated exactly how outmatched they were.

But, they weren't just aurors. They were Division Five. The Best. He was James Potter, Lord Potter of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Potter. He'd forged an alliance with the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, a feat considered impossible by anyone else. He was the friend of werewolves, a Master of Transfiguration, the Marauder, and most important of all, Husband of Lily Evans!

It was only at that last thought that James realized he was hearing something above the din. A victorious, fierce song. That could only mean one thing. "Get ready."

To no surprise Remus was far ahead of him, laying down covering fire past the Dark Lord. The spears of magic lanced through his peripheral vision, striking inaccurate blasts into stone. Sharp bits of rock shattered into the Death Eaters, distracting them.

Just at that moment, an overwhelming light appeared, between Voldemort and his prey. Calling it a mere light was inadequate. It was like calling a volcano _warm,_ or an enraged dragon _somewhat irritated._ This light radiated from one point, eviscerating two vampires James hadn't even noticed under its intensity, blinding in the same way eternity looks from up close.

Dumbledore had arrived.

For a moment, a point in time too small to count, the two sides looked at each other. Pitiless eyes, dark as Hell, ringed in power stared into the restrained fury of gray eyes framed by white eyebrows. For that infinitesimally small burst of time, there was more than enough room for a full conversation. An exchange of ideas, the full knowledge that what had happened, happened. What was about to happen, would be without mercy.

Voldemort struck. One hand spun outwards, the magic inherent seizing entire walls to fling at Dumbledore. The other flickered his wand through an intricate pattern, spawning shadows filled with crimson eyes.

Reacting, Dumbledore's own wand twitched, sending a piercing ray of light into the darkness. Agility unseen in most older men came to his aid, springing through the hole made by the light, avoiding the collapsing wall and shroud of darkness in one move.

James stopped. The sheer power required for Voldemort to perform the action hinted at the Rituals he must have undergone. Power: unadulterated, unhinged _power_ reshaped the earth, warping reality itself to the Dark Lord's will.

By comparison, Dumbledore's own Rituals were obvious. Whatever the Defeater-of-Grindlewald had done, it had improved his mind. Where the Dark Lord directed fiendishly complex chains of spells, Dumbledore was a few steps ahead. One critical segment of terrain was safe to stand upon; part of a reality-bending wall of flame weakened under his own spell-work.

Where Voldemort was Power, Dumbledore was Precision. Each move, made with the surety of a master swordsman in his favorite classroom, delayed blinding-fast strikes.

"Do we help him?" Sirius sounded just as awed as James.

James studied Dumbledore's movements, catching the slight movements of the fingers, a faint shifting of the eye. The man was performing simultaneous _duel casting!_ Not just the hideous complexity of different spells with each hand, but doubling the spells of each hand, while reacting to the duel casting of Voldemort. All at the same time.

Remus answered for him. "Let them fight it out. This is out of our league."

Had James thought about it later, he would have realized something important. Neither of the two wizards, reshaping the world in front of him, were even sweating.


End file.
